


Pools

by hannibae



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Will, Daddy Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 12:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibae/pseuds/hannibae
Summary: It feels a lot like he’s being taken care of.





	Pools

He’s swimming. 

His hands are scrabbling for purchase, but only finding the smooth walls of a pool, nothing above or below him. When he opens his mouth, it’s to scream, and it vibrates its way throughout, until he’s surrounded by the muffled sound. Everything is hazy, dark, and he’s swimming. 

Waking with a start, Will tosses his hands to his sides, gasping loudly enough that he doesn’t hear Hannibal’s calm, heavy voice saying his name. It breaks through the muffled scream Will still hears only when Hannibal’s hand lands on his chest, fingers splayed. 

He feels warm all over, and he’s trembling, and he puts his hand on top of Hannibal’s to let him know he’s okay. 

Hannibal hums, turns towards Will. “What did you dream about?” He sounds tired. 

Will feels immediately guilty, turns towards Hannibal to bury his face in the warmth he finds there before answers. It’s muffled like his scream when he says, “The fall.” 

“Did you survive this time?” Often he doesn’t, and Hannibal always promises it was just a dream, that Will did indeed survive and so did Hannibal. 

Sometimes he doesn’t feel real, is all, even if it’s been years since he last lost time. There’s still a fear, icy cold just under the surface of his skin, that he can’t seem to shake. “I don’t know,” Will tells him. “I was trying to scream when I woke up.” 

“You did scream. It’s what woke me up,” Hannibal tells him, turning, getting his arm around Will’s shoulders so that he can position them how he wants them. Will is left with his cheek on Hannibal’s chest, no longer able to muffle anything he says. 

“I’m sorry,” Will says, sheepish and uncomfortable. He isn’t drowning anymore, but he still feels like he’s swimming, stuck in that pool with no way out. He shifts, gets his hand on Hannibal’s chest, splays his fingers out across his skin. 

Hannibal doesn’t say he doesn’t need to apologize, because Will already knows that. What he says instead is, “I’ll go make us some tea.” 

And he’s moving, then, and Will knows he’s supposed to be following. All he can manage is to shift again, rolling himself into the warm space Hannibal’s body leaves, burying his face in Hannibal’s pillow. It’s comforting. 

It’s home.

Hannibal, making a small amused sound, runs a hand through Will’s hair before he’s leaving the room. 

Once he’s alone, Will is given too much time to remember, to fall back into the feeling of his own scream vibrating around him. The inky darkness of water too cold around him, the way the tips of his fingers felt skidding across the smooth surface of the pool walls. 

He gets out of bed, mourning the loss of Hannibal’s warmth. 

When he spots Hannibal’s robe draped over the back of the chair in the corner, he pulls it on. It’s better, and he pulls it tighter to him as he walks downstairs to find Hannibal. 

The sun is still down outside, so it must be early, and Hannibal is pulling pans out of the cabinet when Will finds him. 

He manages not to snort out a laugh, but just barely, deciding instead to sit in front of the mug of tea Hannibal has placed in front of a chair at the island for him. It’s steaming, and Will watches the tendrils dance higher and higher before they disappear. 

“What are you making?” Will asks as he sits, pulling Hannibal’s robe even tighter to him. He’s surprised Hannibal didn’t pull it on himself, seeing as he’s still in just his boxer briefs, getting ready to cook breakfast for the two of them. There’s already a cast iron pan with tomatoes cooking on the stove. 

“Frittata this morning, I think,” Hannibal says, “with green onion sausage and roasted tomatoes.” 

“Toast?” 

“If you’d like, sure.” And Hannibal is smiling. It feels a lot like he’s being taken care of. 

Like he woke up from a nightmare in the middle of the night and shook his dad awake. The realization of that feeling smarts through him, dragging unpleasantly through his stomach until he’s saying, “Sorry, that was...weird.” 

“Asking me to make you something specific was weird?” 

Will laughs a bit, around his first, tentative sip of tea. It’s only then that he notices Hannibal hasn’t made himself any. This is about comfort. This is about making sure Will feels warm and full. 

Nurtured. 

So he says, “No. No, I just-- I had thought that this was a lot like waking my dad up in the middle of the night.” He pauses, trying to fit the words together properly. “Except he didn’t make me tea and frittata. Usually I got cursed at and told to go back to sleep.” 

“Your father and I have a different idea of being a caretaker, it would seem,” Hannibal says. 

Will hums around another sip of tea. As he swallows, his throat works around, “Is that what you are to me?” 

“I would argue we are that for each other. Relationships are about taking care of the other person to a certain degree, are they not?” And he’s not looking at Will as he talks, focused on cracking eggs into a bowl, the shells being tossed into the garbage can carefully. 

Will lets the words sit on the tip of his tongue. He decides to swallow them down with another sip of tea. It’s herbal, sweet, and Will lets it shape his next sentence. “Do I take care of you, Hannibal?” 

“Yes.” It’s simple, blunt, and he finally looks up at Will after he says it, soft and fond, before he’s going back to cooking, rough chopping a link of sausage. “Do I take care of you?” 

Will inhales slowly, thinks about being smart before he’s exhaling around, “Yes, Hannibal. You do.” 

“Good,” Hannibal says. “Tell me about your father.” 

It’s not a subject they talk about.  _ Family _ . 

Neither of them have particularly good memories surrounding the word, both before they met each other and after, and Will would rather Hannibal not push the issue, so he usually extends the same courtesy. Now, though, it seems Hannibal is feeling bold enough to pry. 

So Will says, “He died right after I moved to Baltimore, and it felt like I was shedding an old skin. What else do you want to know about him?” 

“How did he comfort you when your mother died?” 

“He didn’t.” The conversation prickles at the back of his neck, but not because it’s uncomfortable. These are old wounds for a younger self to be upset by. He just isn’t sure where Hannibal is planning on taking this conversation.

Hannibal pours the egg mixture into the cast iron pan, and places the empty bowl in the sink behind him. “Did he avoid or react?” 

There’s a certain weight behind the question, and Will steels himself before answering honestly: “He avoided.” 

Hannibal looks pleased at his honesty, and he tells Will, “Did he know about your empathy at that point, or was he coping?” 

The meal is going to taste too much like these questions if Hannibal doesn’t get to his point soon, but Will clenches his jaw and takes another pointed sip of his tea. “He knew. Are we done with this conversation?” 

“Would you like to be?”

Will laughs a bit harshly, tugging at Hannibal’s robe again. “Yes, very much, thank you.” 

“One more question, if it isn’t too much, Will,” Hannibal says, leaning against the counter and stealing Will’s mug of tea for a sip himself. 

Will grunts in agreement, begrudgingly, but with enough honesty that Hannibal is pleased enough to ask his question. 

It rings in Will’s ears when he hears it fully, settles oddly in the base of his spine as he wriggles in his seat: 

“When did you start comparing your father and I?” 

It’s like a bucket of water is poured over his head, and he pulls the robe to him tighter still, wishing he could slice himself into pieces with it. He feels the soft drag of silk across his inner thighs instead, and it’s so similar to how Hannibal’s mouth feels there that it rips a shudder from him. He just barely bites back the whine that wants to stumble from his lungs. 

There are butterflies in his stomach now, an uncomfortable intrusion, and Hannibal hasn’t done this to him in so long, torn a psychological answer from him. It’s not a question, not really, but Will still works his mouth around a barely-there answer of, “Not until we lived together.” 

Hannibal’s eyebrows raise just enough for Will to catch it. “That makes sense, being that he and I are the only two people you’ve ever lived with.” 

“I want it to be very clear that I didn’t think of my father sexually,” Will says, as carefully as he can. 

“I didn’t think you had,” Hannibal promises, and Will’s shoulders slump. “I only assumed you were comparing how the two of us took care of you.” 

Will closes his eyes, inhales deeply. Eyes still closed, he says, “My father  _ didn’t  _ take care of me. That’s the only comparison I was making.” 

Hannibal is pleased by this whole conversation, and the words Will isn’t saying are weaving themselves delicately in the thick air between the two of them. 

Hannibal says them for him, delicate and serious at three o’clock in the morning, with a frittata ready to be put in the oven, “Am I a better Daddy to you then, Will?” 

It sears through him like a burn, bright and vibrant, leaving him sucking in air too harshly to be ignored. And Hannibal does look just so pleased with himself when Will chances a look up at him. He’s putting the pan in the oven, grin pulling at the sides of his mouth as he moves fluidly around the kitchen. 

Will knows he’s waiting for an answer, patient and kind, but all Will can manage is to mumble a quick, “I’m gonna take a shower,” before he’s draining the last of his tea and trying to be smooth about making his way back upstairs. 

He drapes Hannibal’s robe across the back of the chair again on his way to their shower. 

In the shower, he turns the water so hot he can’t see through the steam. The water turns his skin an angry red, leaves him tender and aching as he scrubs with Hannibal’s soap. He smells like Hannibal, then, citrusy and clean, rubbing the mess of suds through his hair, too. Consumed by the scent of him, Will thinks about what Hannibal said. 

Thinking of Hannibal and his father wasn’t a conscious decision. It simply happened, the stark differences rolling around in the back of his head as he and Hannibal were interwoven with each other in this new life. Hannibal was right, they are the only two people he’s ever lived with. It’s easy to see how he could fall into that line of thinking, into the subconscious comparisons he’d found himself making. 

Little things that Hannibal did just soured his memories of his father even more, often leaving him searching for more contact with Hannibal, leaving him reaching out in the middle of the night or curling himself around the line of him as he cooked in the afternoon. Will never said anything about it, never once made any move at letting Hannibal know what he was thinking, but it’s no surprise he was able to piece together the puzzle at Will’s little off-handed comment earlier. 

All of that is fine. It’s to be expected, living so intimately with someone. 

Hearing Hannibal’s mouth shape around his question the way it did, how he was grinning through it, knowing exactly what he was doing-- 

That was less than fine.

They should talk. 

Instead, Will finishes his shower, warm and clean, and dries himself off before stretching out across the bed again. He doesn’t even bother getting under the covers, choosing to wrap his legs around them, pulling them to the center of his body for something to grasp onto, something to wrap his legs around as he tries to gather his thoughts. He’s careful about not dripping his hair all over the place before he’s tugging Hannibal’s pillow to him, wondering exactly where Hannibal wants this new discovery of his to lead them. 

Someone like Hannibal, who needs control, craves power, would inevitably want it to end with Will fluttering his eyelashes at him and asking him for things as prettily as he can. He would want it to be natural, an instinct of Will’s. For now, what Will can offer is compliance. 

He can offer a shared interest. 

Which is where his thoughts have landed when Hannibal walks into the room, making a small sound of appreciation when he sees Will. 

“Have I bothered you?” he’s asking, and Will lets out all the breath in his lungs at once. 

He mulls it over. “No,” he decides. “Will you lie down with me?” 

“I have to check on breakfast first,” Hannibal tells him, and then he’s moving forward, pressing his lips to Will’s forehead before walking out. 

Will recognizes this as Hannibal giving him space. Which is perhaps not what Will wants right now, so he gets up out of bed, grabs Hannibal’s robe again with a huff, and pulls it on as he makes his way downstairs. 

Hannibal is slicing into a frittata so hot that he’s holding the pan with two towels when Will finally makes his way back into the kitchen. He feels foolish for running suddenly, back in the same place he was before, with that sentence hanging thickly in the air between them. 

Before he can stop himself, he’s saying, “Yes. You’re a better--You’re a better Daddy, Hannibal.” 

The grin on Hannibal’s face deceives him for just a brief second before he’s promising Will, “We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.” 

It tugs a humorless laugh from Will, and he says, “Yes, we do. You’ve broken the seal, Doctor.” 

Hannibal plates up a couple of slices, garnish and everything, and Will watches him snap the leaves of parsley from the plant on the far counter as delicately as he’s snapping at Will’s resolve. This conversation needs to happen, and Hannibal wants it to, is thrumming at the idea of having it with Will as pliant and willing as he’s seeming to be this morning. 

It’s early, and the edges of his vision are still that murky, inky black of the pool in his dreams. His fingertips are still skidding along the smooth walls, only now he’s trying to get a grip on this conversation they’re dragging through the morning. Will takes the plate Hannibal hands him, pointedly waits until he starts walking around to the chairs on the other side of the island. 

This is more informal than Hannibal typically prefers meals to be, but Will doesn’t question it. He sits. He notes Hannibal waiting for him to eat first, and takes a bite. 

It’s good. Of course it’s good. And Hannibal’s eyes drag across his face as he eats. By the time he’s finally taking a bite of his own, Will feels himself getting flush. 

Feeling bold, wanting this conversation to go somewhere beyond the tips of his fingers, his throat works around a soft, “Thank you, Daddy.” 

Hannibal’s eyes go a bit wide for just a second, and he straightens up a bit more, chewing his bite carefully. “It is my absolute pleasure to care for you, Will.” 

“I know,” Will tells him. 

Hannibal hums softly, and they eat in a comfortable, buzzing silence. 

When they’re done, Hannibal washes the dishes, tells Will to go lie down while he does. It’s a gentle nudge, very nearly a test of these waters, and Will is only vaguely tentative about listening. He hangs Hannibal’s robe in the closet this time. 

And once more, he sprawls across the bed, on top of the blankets. It’s warm and safe and smells of Hannibal. 

So does he. 

He drifts, almost asleep by the time he feels Hannibal nosing at the dip of his spine, teeth nipping at the curve of his ass. There are hands next, trailing up his sides, feeling the solidity of him, as if he’s reminding himself that Will is really there. His breath is warm along Will’s skin, leaving a damp trail in its wake. Hannibal murmurs a gentle, “Will you, once more for me?” 

“Will I what?” 

There’s a beat, and then Hannibal’s teeth digging into Will’s shoulder in warning. It’s almost funny, being punished for being coy considering what Hannibal is asking him for right now. 

“Please, Daddy,” Will breathes. 

It’s Hannibal’s turn to stutter, his hands skidding messily along Will’s skin as he shifts, moves to press his mouth wetly against Will’s neck. Against the curve of his shoulder, Hannibal asks him, “Have you any idea how terribly I wish to consume you entirely, my cunning boy?” 

“Show me.” Will turns, wants to face him, wants this to be as close as possible to him. 

Hannibal’s hands are quick, moving to pin Will’s hands above his head, stretch him out until he’s taut and exposed, until he can bend and sink those sharp teeth right under his ribs. He doesn’t draw blood, but he sucks hard enough to leave a welt, to leave Will writhing and panting and hoping. There’s a matching one on the other side before long, and he’s bookended by imprints of Hannibal’s teeth, angry and purple already. They’ll look worse as the day goes on, and Will wants to ask him for more, to be decorated with them. 

He wants to feel the tug and ache in every one of his movements. 

But when Hannibal pulls away, his lips are swollen and red already, his eyes heavy as he watches Will’s chest rise and fall. His eyes glance up to where Will isn’t struggling to get his hands free like he usually does. 

“Do you feel cared for, Will?” Hannibal asks, dragging those lips across Will’s chest, leaving behind slick, warm trails that cool within moments. 

“Y-yes,” Will stutters, straining to arch forward, into Hannibal’s contact. “Yes, Hannibal.” 

It’s not what he’s craving right now, and Will knows that. But he feels like he’s trembling apart, and he isn’t sure he can get his mouth to work around the words again right now. Not when Hannibal’s mouth feels warm and safe, dragging carefully along the dips of Will’s body. 

And then pressed to his own, just as warm, just as safe. As he’s pulling away, Hannibal breathes, “My darling boy.” 

“Are you going to fuck me, Daddy?” Will asks, arching into the contact, just as slow and desperate as Hannibal is dragging this out to be. 

Hannibal makes a low sound, smears it across the jut of Will’s collarbones as his hand moves, cups over Will’s cock. “Would you like me to fuck you?” he asks, and those words tumbling from Hannibal’s lips never fail to settle low and heavy in Will’s stomach. 

It’s like a thousand fireflies are trapped in his guts, coming to life with every sweep of Hannibal’s hands across his skin, every syllable dripping from his tongue and into the room around them. In the sweet, sleepy early morning slowly eking to life around them, Hannibal is filling the empty spaces with heat. 

“Yes,” Will begs, just barely a sound falling out of him as Hannibal’s mouth drags across his skin. He wants to feel those teeth sinking into him again. 

But it’s just as good when his hand squeezes around his cock for just a second. 

He arches into the feeling, desperate, wanting everything Hannibal wants to give him. Against his skin, Hannibal’s lips work around, “Would you like me to fill you up, my darling boy?” 

“Please,” Will breathes. “ _ Please _ .” 

He feels tender, raw, and Hannibal’s lips are still dragging across his shoulders, delicate and careful as ever. When his teeth do come out, sinking into the fleshy part of Will’s back just for a beat, just enough to have his breath catching in his throat, it’s around a rough sound and a thick, “Are you going to ask me nicely for it?” 

His hips rock down against the mattress, and Hannibal’s follow, a rough, startling feeling of the thick line of his cock against Will’s ass. Knowing he wants this, too, wants whatever this is shaping up to be in the way that Will wants it, is a sweet feeling in the base of Will’s stomach. It’s fluttering around in there when he lets out a soft, “Will you please fuck me, Daddy?” 

The sound that tumbles out of Hannibal is low and almost quiet, desperate and hot, right in Will’s ear. Every single nerve ending in Will’s body is attuned to Hannibal as it is, the universe lining them up together in some cruel joke; and like this, Will feels like they’re fading into one person. They’re bleeding into each other, blurring the lines. 

He knows exactly what Hannibal wants. 

And Hannibal knows exactly what Will wants. 

But really, that’s been true all along. There are butterflies in Will’s stomach that flutter in waves when Hannibal’s low, crackling voice murmurs, “My good, sweet boy,” right in the nape of Will’s neck. His accent is always thick like this, voice practically slurring through English as he loses himself in Will. 

“Hannibal,” Will breathes. He’s still just rutting against Will, slick mouth at his skin, dragging this out so that it’s syrupy sweet, thick between them. 

Then, in the silence that falls between them, there’s a hand that snakes its way down the length of Will’s body, until Hannibal is reaching between his legs, cupping over his balls. It’s just a beat, enough time for Will to stutter out a shaky breath, and then that hand is moving, too dry to be pressing a rough finger at Will’s hole. And when Will jerks, Hannibal chuckles lowly. 

He asks, “Do you trust me?” 

“Yes,” Will says, not hesitating for a second, the response a gut-reaction. He trusts Hannibal wholelly, daftly,  _ insanely _ . “Yeah.  _ Yes _ , Daddy.” 

“Do you trust me to make you feel good? To feel cared for?” 

There’s a whine, broken and sharp that tugs its way out of Will’s chest, achingly fast. Those lips are still at Will’s skin. He’s still murmuring the words into his shoulders, the back of his neck. It feels like a promise, like this. 

Will nods frantically, trying to shift, to turn and look at him, to open his mouth and beg and beg and beg for this to become anything at all. His cock is half-hard, trapped between his belly and the silky sheets on the bed. 

Hannibal is gone in a second, Will’s skin breaking out in goosebumps at the sudden cold air on him. He isn’t gone long, and the bed dips with his movements, Will watching out of the corner of his eyes as he leans over, all lean muscle and tan skin, to reach into the bedside table. He knows what comes next, but it nearly always shocks a sound out of him, gentle and low, when Hannibal presses a slick finger to his hole. 

He doesn’t ask again, doesn’t want an answer from Will, before he’s easing it inside him. Hannibal’s fingers are slender and practiced, and he likes to watch Will squirm. It’s too soon to be crooking up cruelly, finding that spot that heats Will up like sparks in his belly and pressing too hard, too much, but he does it anyway. 

“God, Hannibal,” Will gasps, arching into the feeling, chasing that biting edge, the too-much that’s got his hips rocking down against the mattress. 

“I do love you like this, Will,” Hannibal says. “I love watching how receptive you are. You’re so sensitive, right from the start.” 

There’s a second finger, pressing in alongside the first, and Will feels every muscle in him clench at once, hears Hannibal’s sharp inhale as he does. For a beat, Will wonders if Hannibal wants to play that game, instead-- if he wants Will to pretend he’s never done this, that Hannibal is taking him apart for the first time. 

He’s so enjoyed breaking Will down in other ways, why not this one, too? 

So he asks, a little breathy, a little too airy, “Will it hurt?” 

And then Hannibal is leaning down, bowing his head until he’s burying his groan into Will’s neck, telling him, “No. I promise.” 

Will wants to feel him, wants to rush this, but he bites the inside of his cheek instead, fingers gripping at the sheets tightly enough that his fingers ache. He hardly needs more prep work that what Hannibal has given him already, but the illusion is carried forth when Hannibal carefully eases a third wet finger inside of him. 

He feels full. 

If he tries hard enough, he could probably even really make this seem like his first time. 

But when Hannibal curls those fingers up again, presses directly at Will’s prostate, he can’t help the thick, heavy, “I’m ready, I-- Fuck,  _ Daddy _ , come on.” 

“Patience,” Hannibal says, hushing him politely, curling his fingers again, leaving Will’s hips arching off the bed, his body pressing back for more, for harder, for  _ something _ . 

There’s lube on the insides of his thighs, dripping from Hannibal’s hand, and he feels filthy already, will need another shower. When Hannibal noses at his neck again, inhaling heavily, Will knows he’s catching the scent of his arousal, the sweet notes of his sweat, the way his body is thrumming, aching, for him. And it’s only when Will makes another soft sound, says, “You said you’d take care of me, Daddy,” that he’s pressing his mouth to Will’s skin, distracting him for a moment as he eases his fingers out. 

Will listens carefully for the sounds of Hannibal slicking his cock with his wet hand, feels his breath catch in his throat when he does. In another act of cruelty, Hannibal lines himself up, gets one hand on Will’s hip to hold him in place, and waits until Will is begging him again, the words tumbling out of him like he can’t hold them inside anymore; and then he’s just rubbing his wet head over Will’s stretched hole, humming thickly. Will knows he’s watching, listening to the obscene sounds, trying to drag more words from Will. 

They all die in his throat, and he’s left arching into him, keening embarrassingly loud. 

The blunt head of Hannibal’s cock pressing at his hole has him clenching around nothing, hands reaching back to skid across Hannibal’s sweaty skin, and he’s swimming again. Only this time he’s not in a pool, he’s pressing back into the feeling of Hannibal finally, finally sinking inside. Will’s body seems eager to be filled, slick and open and toyed with for this long, and Hannibal makes a rough sound in the back of his throat as he pulls out a bit, eases back in. 

He’s stretching Will around his cock, as if he hadn’t just had three of his fingers stuffed inside him moments ago. 

And Will is unable to stop himself from laughing lowly, the sound catching in his throat when Hannibal bottoms out. He says, “Are you going to actually fuck me, or are you stringing me along?” 

“Is that any way to speak to your Daddy, Will?” He sounds so-- 

He’s put-together. He doesn’t sound like someone balls-deep inside of another man. It’s almost  _ scolding _ , almost paternal. His voice is even and easy and serious, and it sends a shiver down Will’s spine, has him bending to lay his head on the mattress. 

He can feel himself starting to tremble, feeling just on the side of overstimulated already, Hannibal’s voice feeling like hands running down his sides. And he isn’t even moving, just holding his hands on Will’s hips, holding him in place as he stays completely still but for his thumbs tracing circles into Will’s skin. 

This is him proving a point. 

Will murmurs, “I’m sorry, Daddy.” 

One of Hannibal’s hands moves as he hums his appreciation for the apology, lands in Will’s hair. He uses that grip as leverage as he grinds his hips forward, leaving Will open-mouthed panting against the sheets. His fingers curl in Will’s hair like they were in his ass, holding him in place as he eases his hips back just a fraction before he’s pressing them forward again. 

It’s almost punishing, dragging the sensation out, dragging his cock across all the sensitive parts of Will’s body. There’s only just barely a rough sound building in Hannibal’s chest as he fucks into Will, and that’s all the indication Will gets that this is good for him. 

He knows it is, knows Hannibal well enough at this point to know that he’s getting off on this just the same as Will is, but-- 

But it’s jarring, hearing him so calm and quiet when he’s usually vocal, petting through Will’s head and pouring his love and devotion across Will’s body with his praise. 

He’s in control now, though. He’s caring for Will, giving him what he needs. 

He’s providing. 

And Will-- 

Will would be rude not to allow him to. 

He’s reaching back before he can think about it, searching for contact, trying to let Hannibal know that he understands, now. All he manages is finding Hannibal’s side, fingers dancing across the muscles under the surface. 

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you, Hannibal. Daddy.” 

And he understands. He understands, he feels it in the tips of Hannibal’s fingers, in the slick drag of his cock through him. He’s full and fed and dripping with sweat in Hannibal’s bed. In Hannibal’s house. In Hannibal’s life. 

Will is cared for, thoroughly, in every way Hannibal knows how to care for him. 

“Good boy, Will,” Hannibal praises quietly. Finally, he sounds strained, and Will presses back into him, hearing the way it has Hannibal sucking in a sharp breath. “Greedy,” he teases, and Will can hear his smile. 

“I want--,” Will starts, the words getting caught in his throat, but Hannibal knows, anyway. 

He knows, but he doesn’t give in, doesn’t reach down and get his hand on Will’s cock. He wants to drag this along, wants to see how far he can take Will like this. 

This is his attempt at tethering Will to him, to this. It’s working, seeping into Will’s bones like a comfort. Will thinks he could get used to this feeling. Hannibal is filling him up, keeping him full. And he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses to Will’s skin again, across his shoulders, wet and desperate, hips working just as slow, just as easy as before. 

Will can feel it curling around his spine, dripping down the back of his throat in thick, syrupy waves. He’s still swimming, but this time he’s found his grip, and it’s on Hannibal. Flames lick their way through his veins, and he’s choking on a sob as he feels Hannibal pulling all the way out, feels his knuckles on his skin as Hannibal jerks himself off, tells Will, “Show me, Will. Show me what you understand.” 

And Will isn’t thinking clearly when he reaches behind himself, trembling and panting and desperate for that snap of release. Two of his own fingers, not as good as Hannibal’s, pressing inside of himself. He’s sore and sensitive, and Hannibal’s mouth is on him again, in the center of his back. 

“Please,” Will is whining, begging, voice pinched and thin. When Hannibal just hums, watches him fuck himself with two of his own fingers, Will tries, “ _ Oh _ , I’m-- I belong here with you, Daddy. I’m-- You want me to be here.” 

“I want you to be here,” Hannibal confirms, breathes it into Will’s skin, and then he’s lining his cock back up, pressing inside slowly, right alongside Will’s fingers still fucking into him. 

It’s a stretch, maybe too much of one, and Hannibal shushes him when he gasps, panicked. He rubs his thumb along Will’s hip, grounds him to this moment, to this feeling of too much. 

He’s so full, so overworked, and he hasn’t even touched his cock, but as soon as Hannibal is bottoming out, he’s coming. 

It starts as a kindling in his guts, fluttering up through his esophagus as a cry, sharp and loud, and it twines through his ribs, down to the palms of his hands. He feels it in waves, rolling and rolling through him, up and out of his mouth in gasps of Hannibal’s name, of ‘ _ Daddy, Daddy, fuck, god _ ,’ that just earn him harder, deeper rocks of Hannibal’s hips. 

His hands are soft and soothing across Will’s skin, and he’s saying something that Will can’t pay attention to right now. All he can hear is his own voice, cracking around the edges as he begs Hannibal for more, begs him, “Come inside me, Daddy. I want you to, please.” 

His fingers are still pressed alongside Hannibal’s cock, unmoving but there, and Will sucks in a heavy, shaky breath and moves them, too. On the opposite of Hannibal’s thrusts, dragging out that feeling just like Hannibal wanted. It’s definitely too much, now, and he twitches every time his prostate is stimulated, but the way that Hannibal groans desperately, wildly, is worth it. 

When Hannibal comes, he buries his face in Will’s neck, muffles his groan there, hips stuttering against Will’s ass. He drapes himself across Will’s sweaty back, rocks his hips forward just to hear Will whine. 

“Take your fingers out of yourself,” he says, voice low and rough. As soon as Will obeys, he’s collapsing onto him, flattening Will onto the bed in the process. His softening cock slips free as well, and he sighs into Will’s neck. 

Will wants to stretch out, wants to get some feeling back in his limbs, but this is nice. Being so close to Hannibal, slick with his come, is intimate. It’s grounding. So he allows this, for now. 

“Are you sore?” Hannibal asks, nosing across the line of Will’s neck. 

Will nods carefully. He is, but it’s okay. “I’ll soak in a bath, later. But this is okay for right now.” 

Hannibal makes a sound of agreement, tightening his grip on Will just a bit, holding him closer. And he tells Will, “I hope you stop dreaming of our death.” 

“We didn’t die.” 

“A version of us did,” Hannibal insists. “But I want you to be assured that this version of myself that found himself here with this version of you is very happy to have been thrown over the side of that cliff.” 

“I’m sorry,” Will says, because he hasn’t, yet, he doesn’t think. The sting of tears is there, a lump of guilt building in his throat. “I want to be here with you, too, Hannibal.” 

There’s just a press of lips to the side of his head, and Hannibal settles into the mattress. 

When Will sleeps, he dreams of swimming again. He dreams of the same inky black water, of smooth walls around the edges. 

But this time there’s a familiar hand entwining its fingers with his own, tugging him out of the water and whispering about his reckoning in his ear. 


End file.
